Jealousy is a Lime, Green and Bitter
by Catharmel
Summary: And then quite suddenly John had more pressing things to think about than the fantastic sex he'd had with Kate last night, because his head was throbbing quite painfully. He opened his eyes blearily, some part of his brain noting Kate's head lying on his chest, and the darkness of the room. It took him a bit longer to notice Sherlock, standing in the doorway. Johnlock, but messy.
1. Chapter 1

"I really don't see why you two have to discuss business in person." John huffed, but not from fatigue - as quick as Sherlock's pace was, he had enough practice running around the streets of London that a few blocks wouldn't tire him out.

Sherlock was walking ahead, all long legs and quick strides, looking impossibly elegant where normal people would be haggard and harried. He seemed to go even faster, so John had to double his speed to keep up, which wasn't fair at all, as John happened to _be_ normal (which wasn't fair either, John thought).

"I mean, we've got the internet, you know - Skype and all that, and then there's the telephone, and e-mail, and loads of online chat programs - Sherlock!"

The world's only consulting detective had ducked into one of the alleys, seemingly identical to the seven others the pair had passed on their way there. The world's only consulting detective's boyfriend would have much rather they stopped in any of those seven alleys, of course, but they were where they were for a reason. One tall, leggy, usually naked, genius _sexy_ reason, that John didn't like one bit.

Apparently Sherlock had something to discuss with Irene Adler - _the_ _Woman_ - that somehow couldn't be discussed from the comfort of 221B Baker Street. It was all top-secret, something to do with Mycroft, and John wasn't important enough to be told about it, apparently. He was still upset that he'd been lied to about Irene Adler not being dead, and this impromptu reunion wasn't something he was particularly excited for.

No, that was Sherlock - absolutely shaking from nerves, or excitement, or something - it wasn't obvious, of course, but John knew Sherlock's body better than he knew his own, and he could tell. Sherlock had been distant lately, taking even the simplest cases, throwing all of himself into the Work. Normally John didn't mind that at all - he was part of the Work, wasn't he?

Well, apparently not. Sherlock had taken to excuses like _"But John, it's so simple really, you'd be of more use in the surgery"_ and _"Yes I'm sure I don't need you at the scene, John, I can tell by the quality of your tea today that you need more sleep"_ to leave John out of the fun. And he did miss the fun; but more importantly, he missed Sherlock, which was why he found the man's effervescence at the prospect of meeting Adler incredibly grating. Yes, he was jealous; no, don't sue him, there was a reason John didn't wear sleek suits every bloody week like some people did.

They came up to the end of the alley, where there was a shady-looking door that blended in with the brick wall. Sherlock rapped on it, and it slid open. John was determined not to be impressed, no matter how much he'd liked those spy films as a kid. That was hard to keep up, though, as the pair stepped into a chrome-furnished, minimalist white, just-out-of-a-Bond-movie foyer.

They were met by Kate, who looked beautiful - much more so than her lover, John thought, shooting a glare at Sherlock. Because it seemed _his_ lover thought otherwise; his eyes were super-glued (to stick with the Bond theme) to Irene Adler, who had stepped out of nowhere (though 'nowhere' was probably one of those sliding doors that hid in the wall paper).

"I'll be seeing you later, John," Sherlock said slowly.

"You can keep Kate company while we're gone," Irene smiled at John, a sort of toothy_, 'I'm going to get Sherlock all to myself for a while, so stay out of trouble_' viper smile that left him feeling sick.

Irene strutted off into a dark hallway, and Sherlock followed with a flip of his coat. Just like that, John Watson found himself alone with a woman he barely knew, someone he'd be forced to make conversation with, as there really was nothing else to do. The room was a bit _too_ minimalist in that regard.

"So, ah," John tried to break the silence. Just as the room was bare of things to do, it had nothing interesting to pretend to be fascinated by, and he felt awkward just standing there.

Kate sighed. "I don't know what she sees in him."

"Excuse me?" John frowned; who was she to talk? "Frankly, the sadistic lady lune isn't my type either - "

"Oh? Would you like to pass the time going on about why your woman-stealing, coat-flouncing detective's been texting my mistress so much, then? Fif-"

"-ty seven times! Yes, I know, I've heard the message tone, it's _indecent_ - "

"And at all times of the night! Yes! Finally, someone who understands!"

Kate was starting to smile now, and John couldn't help the one tugging on his own lips. Perhaps this afternoon wouldn't be a complete waste of time after all.

* * *

"And, and, and I was just thinking to myself awhile ago, you know, about how this wouldn't be a WASTE of an afternoon, you know? And now we're WASTED! Isn't that just bloody hilarious, Katie?" John let out a guffaw of a drunken laugh, which ended in a hiccup.

Kate giggled, holding up her glass of Adler's expensive Italian wine. "Hiccups, Johnny! You need to drink something!"

The ex-army man grinned. Normally, he'd be much better at holding his liquor than this, but it seemed the luxurious-looking wine (it had come out of a bloody jewel-studded bottle!) was worth its price. Well, it could've also been the fact that John had had about five glasses of the stuff.

Their conversation had started off much more seriously than their present moods indicated, but that was the beauty of alcohol. And what they'd been discussing had required lots of it; it turned out that John wasn't the only one jealous of Sherlock and Adler's new closeness.

The pair had commiserated over glasses of Shiraz Cabernet ("She's been looking forward to drinking this for days, Johnny! Muahahaha, revenge is a glass of wine!") and perhaps it was just the alcohol, but John had very much enjoyed Kate's company. She was entertainingly funny, but also clever, and not in the horribly rude way Sherlock could often be. It didn't hurt that she was beautiful, either, in the unassuming, natural way he liked in women.

"So anyway Johnny, back to the story I was telling - "

"Yes, you are a fantastic story teller! You tell the story, and I'll blog it, I'm a writer you know - "

"I was there, picture it, lying down on her gigantic bed with my legs tied down and my arms tied up, and her bed really is huge so you can imagine how much it hurt!" Kate was staring mournfully into his eyes now, looking away only to have another sip of wine.

"I'm picturing it, love," John nodded gravely. His serious mien was ruined by another hiccup, but that didn't deter the storyteller from continuing on as if it hadn't happened.

"And she's holding the crop already, you see? And I'm panting, and of course I'm naked and it's a bit cold, but I put up with her anyway, devil knows why, and then I hear this _moan_," Kate continued, making a moaning sound herself, to properly get the point across to her audience.

John licked his lips a bit, to get the wine off of them, of course. Not because he was beginning to feel a bit hot, no, not at all.

Kate took another sip of wine, frowning a bit when she realized she had finished her glass. John refilled it for her, and she smiled at him. "Go on," he said, and thought to himself that she was very pretty when she smiled, all plump lips and red cherries. A far cry from Sherlock's thin ones, where you weren't entirely sure you were kissing anything at all.

"So it's her bloody phone, of course, a text from _Sherlock_, because she doesn't have that tone for anyone else. And she gets up and just _leaves _me there! Puts the riding crop down and picks up her cell and walks out of the room, because she always answers Sherlock's messages in private. It's awful, like does she expect me to lean over and read them?" Kate huffed, and John thought her obvious anger and its resulting blush on her cheeks was nice.

"And she just left you there, all tied up?"

"Yes! And the sex is amazing, I'll give her that, but she's as selfish in the bedroom as she is outside it! It's always Irene this, and Irene that! Oh, I'm sorry, Johnny, I don't mean to rant at you…"

"No, no, Katie, I don't mind at all," John's eyes grew wide, and he waved his hands around a bit in protest. A bit of red wine spilled on the white sofa, but he didn't notice.

"You're a saint, Johnny. I think I love you for being such a good listener," she said warmly, and John found himself grinning at her.

"That's a nice thing to hear, you know? I think I love you just for saying that. You know, Sherlock never says that to me, he's like the, the an-ti-the-thing of affection. I think his middle name is Cold. Sherlock Cold Holmes!"

"I can _absolutely_ relate! I think the last time someone told me they loved me was, well, oh," she said softly, blinking up at him from beneath her long lashes. They were black, even though her hair was brown - it was fascinating, drunken John thought.

"When was the last time someone told you that, Katie love?" Never let it be said that John hadn't been good at romancing; he hadn't been called 'Four Continent Watson' for nothing.

"You," Kate whispered, dropping her eyes to her glass, and swirling the wine around a bit.

Now, a sober John Watson would have pointed out, politely, that he'd said the thing not five minutes ago, so of course he was the last person to do so. He also would've sensed the thickness in the air that had nothing to do with awkwardness but a lot to do with sexual tension, and he would've made up an excuse and left the room. No matter how upset he was with Sherlock at the moment, he did love the man, and wouldn't go behind his back to get some (albeit much-needed) sex.

However, John Watson was currently drunk, and thought Kate was very beautiful, and she had just told him she loved him. And John did think he loved her, or something like that, at least in that shallow way that two people who share a bottle and a few heady looks and whispers can think themselves in love.

"Oh," John said softly. "Do you - do you want me to say it again?"

Kate looked up at him, one side of her mouth going higher than the other in a soft, lopsided smile. "Yes… I'd like that. Very much."

* * *

It all blurred together after that.

The abandoned pair's soft conversation had somehow ended up with them going up to Kate's bedroom. John couldn't remember much of_ how _or _why_ it had happened, but he remembered very well what had. Tangled limbs, brown hair that was long and pleasantly soft against his chest, small hands that felt incredibly good _everywhere_…

He could still smell the musty smell of sex, could still feel the rustling of Kate's silk sheets, still hear her soft moaning, and God if it hadn't been nice hearing someone say his name like that, all _John, I love you_…

And then quite suddenly John had more pressing things to think about than the fantastic sex he'd had with Kate last night, because his head was throbbing quite painfully. He opened his eyes blearily, some part of his brain noting Kate's head lying on his chest, and the darkness of the room. It took him a bit longer to notice Sherlock, standing in the doorway with his hand half-stretched towards the light switch, and the Woman just behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Quick Author's Note: I would just like to say thank you to all you readers out there, and even more so for the reviewers. Your response is what makes me write._

"Never ruin an apology with an excuse." - Benjamin Franklin

**Chapter II**

It took John all of a second to realize just how bad things looked. And then Sherlock was turning around, the very picture of abrupt, stepping past Adler and stalking down the corridor. The Woman turned on the lights, stepping into the room, and it was more than shining some light on things - John's entire thought process, all the decisions he'd made since they stepped into Adler's base… It was like a scientist focusing ultraviolet light on all his fuck-ups, examining them and dissecting them in front of a crowd of med school interns.

Somehow, the pounding in his head and the sharpness of the light and the _hurt _on the Woman's face brought him a clarity he wished he'd had the night before. He extricated himself from the sheets, flushing shamefully as he had to untangle himself from Kate (who was, unbelievably, still asleep).

He found his pants crumpled up on the floor, his jumper on top of a lamp, and got dressed as quickly as he could. He managed a mumbled, "I'm sorry," to Adler, who was still standing in the doorway, eyes wide and breathing labored. There was a joke somewhere there about the dominatrix being in pain, but John wasn't bitter enough at her to make it.

He had been bitter, though - he'd liked ranting about the bloody Woman last night, and he'd had more than a few fantasies of her disappearing off the face of the planet for good, this time. Now, all of that was gone, and he felt quite empty.

* * *

He fumbled his way through the corridor, which was dim except for a few occasional Zen-looking wall sconces. Sherlock couldn't have gotten far, could he have? John somehow found his way back to the entrance, passing by the white sofa, immaculate but for a small wine stain, with a cringe.

He climbed out of the brick door with some trepidation; he could find his way back, certainly, and he wouldn't fault Sherlock if he had, but surely he'd waited for him outside…?

The doctor let out a small sigh of relief when he saw the detective's silhouette, leaning against the other side of the alley, staring off into the street. John made his way over slowly and cautiously, for a man with a hangover. He stumbled a bit, but thankfully managed to straighten up when Sherlock turned to look at him.

* * *

"I- I'm sorry, Sherlock."

And John absolutely hated to apologize; he was a man of action, what were words when you'd done something that needed righting? But what could John _say_, really? He was a writer, but even he couldn't think of anything that might make Sherlock forgive him. Hell, he didn't know if he was going to forgive himself.

Sherlock exhaled loudly, holding his blue coat around him tighter, as if against the cold. John could certainly feel the chill, but it wasn't because of the weather.

"Of course you are," and Sherlock was using his detached deducting voice, the kind he used in front of Anderson and Donovan. It felt wrong to John, that Sherlock was in battle mode when it was just the two of them. It was wrong that Sherlock felt like he had to defend himself against John, and it left a sickening weight in his throat that hurt when he tried to breathe.

"I can see you've had too much to drink – a good wine, judging from the stain on the sofa, not something that modest mouse of a girl would own herself so the Woman's. Even if it was, it would have been a gift from her - why drink something so connected to her lover with you, a stranger? Because you'd found something in common, something about Irene Adler, and what would you two have recently in common about her besides the Woman and I, your partners, spending time together?"

Sherlock was looking John in the eyes, but his had lost the spark they usually had when rattling off deductions. His eyes were frosted, and glassy, as if Sherlock was hiding himself behind the windows of his Mind Palace and they'd fogged over.

John wanted to say something, but couldn't think of anything that felt like it could even halfway make up for sleeping with someone else.

"Jealousy, then, and neglect - I apologize for not spending enough time with you, John. Sex - when was the last time we had it? Perhaps we should come up with a schedule, yes, that's a good idea - "

"No, stop right there, Sherlock," John interrupted him, bringing one hand to rub at his eyes frustratedly. This was not a conversation he wanted to have hung-over, but it looked like he was going to have to.

"Sherlock, we haven't been spending enough time _together_; you've been busy with cases, yes, but I've been putting in more hours at the surgery, too. It goes both ways, I could've told you I missed you - "

"Very well then, since you're so eager to take your share of the blame," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Why did you do it, John? Why didn't you tell me we needed more time together, why didn't you tell me you were this upset at me, that all you needed was to get yourself _drunk_ and you'd be falling over yourself into the arms of whatever woman happened to be convenient?"

When Sherlock put it that way, John felt even more horrible than he already did. And trust him, between the copious amounts of alcohol he'd drank last night, eating only one meal the day before, and waking up with more repercussions from drinking than an already sizeable hangover… Well, John felt pretty damn terrible.

"I'm sorry, I… I didn't want to make you think I was insecure," he said in a small voice, feeling more like a schoolboy than a retired soldier. It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud, but that was how he felt -

Sherlock made a small disbelieving noise, so John went on, struggling to get his words out the way they made sense in his head. "You're always going on about how attachment is a weakness, Sherlock, and I was trying to show you that in this case it wasn't. I thought if we could do it without you being distracted from cases or me from surgery that… That… "

John wasn't quite sure what he had been planning to say next, as he'd actually been making up most of what he was saying on the spot. It didn't matter, though, as the next thing he did was to throw up on Sherlock's shoes, and pass out.


	3. Chapter 3

_Quick Author's Note: Bit of a change, this chapter's in Sherlock's point of view. Probably only one more chapter to go! Thank you to all the readers and supporters of this; it certainly wouldn't have come so quickly without you all._

"I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world." - Robert Frost

**Chapter III**

Sherlock couldn't believe what had happened that day. First of all, he hadn't eaten breakfast. While this was usually quite normal, it was usually by choice; John made him breakfast every morning, Sherlock just chose not to eat it. Sometimes he gave it to someone from the homeless network, sometimes he kept it in the fridge for an experiment…

The point was, Sherlock did appreciate John's housekeeping tendencies, and knew something was amiss when his partner didn't feel the need to take care of him.

They'd been busy lately, of course. There had been an influx of crime in London, it was fantastic, and Sherlock had gotten caught up in that. But John had compensated by putting in more hours at the surgery, and they were both being productively busy. Or so he'd thought.

He'd made a mental note that morning to spend more time with John; sociopath as he was, he knew relationships required reinforcement every now and then. He'd noticed it had been quite a while since they had last had a good conversation, and sex?

The last time he could remember anything remotely orgasmic was a couple of weeks ago, and even then he'd run off before they could finish. It had been a good case, Sherlock remembered, but the longest discussion he remembered having with his John since then was about writing up the story.

He was resolved, then; as soon as he finished this business with the Woman (whom he was honestly glad to see, as geniuses who weren't evil were few and far between), he would take John out tonight. Perhaps to Angelo's, it _had_ been a few weeks since they'd had Italian…

* * *

No. No, no, no, _nonono_.

Sherlock couldn't process what he was seeing. Well, no, that wasn't entirely accurate - his mind could understand it all well enough (_scuff on the door, ladies' shoes, John had been carrying her to bed_), the details (_clothes strewn all across the room, tossed because there was something better to do than worry about neatness, like sex, hot and fast)_ as clear as ever.

But as clear as everything was through the windows of his mind palace, he didn't want to understand (_John's hair was tussled, but more so in the back, his partner grabbed his hair during a particularly deep thrust)_, he didn't want to -

And he recoiled from the thought that someone else had been John's partner. That was what everything of the scene had indicated, and while he knew John had been drunk (_wine stain on the couch, wasn't there before, had to be John, that other one held her glass differently_), he was still very unhappy.

This was what John would call very not good, if he hadn't been the instigator of the problem in the first place.

_But that wasn't fair_, a voice in his palace whispered. It sounded very much like John_. After all, would he have needed to go to someone else if it hadn't been for you neglecting him?_

And yes, Sherlock had noticed they hadn't touched base in longer than usual. He had noticed John was lonely, and he'd been missing his blogger as well. But…

_But then it was both their faults. And they would both have to work to fix it._

And then his body - _useless transport, what was with the communication delay, really those neurons were so slow_ - finally managed to turn around, and he was running.

His mind handled the details, like _step around the Woman, don't bump her_ and _turn left here, this goes out to the streets, out to London, _and _London, sounds good, lots of air and space to run_. His body was free to focus on his baser instincts, _hurthurthurt run need to be free get out of this place_.

He didn't stop until he was out, _turn a right here and then slide the brick door open_. Finally he could breathe again, and the smog and fog of London was Olympus to his aching lungs. Or was that his heart? He couldn't be sure, it was just a general hurt.

Normally, he'd talk to his doctor about it, but he hurt even more at the mere thought of it.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't quite sure how long he'd been standing in the alley (or, for that matter, when he'd stopped standing and had slumped against the probably filthy alley wall), but then suddenly John had joined him. The loud, clumsy footsteps of the normally steady man (_still hung-over, too much to drink, had been drunk beyond reason)_ gave him more than enough warning.

By the time John had stopped, about a foot away from him, he had managed to discreetly wipe his eyes. Ugh, transport.

"I- I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock could hear the self-loathing in his voice, and while a viciously angry part of him was happy, the rest of him felt even worse. He didn't understand his emotions very well, especially when what he felt was illogical; but he did know enough that he didn't want John to be upset. _Not for very much longer, anyway; he did still… __**hurt**__ me._

Sherlock let out a breath he had apparently been holding. "Of course you are." He began speaking, rapidly and sharply and partly wanting to hurt John as much as he'd been hurt.

Every word about _his partner's _gross infidelity was like a dull knife he was pointing at John. He painted out the facts leading to the climax - if one wanted to be crude, and that was exactly how Sherlock felt at the moment - with red for love and passion and blood and anger.

And if his voice cracked just half an octave when he said the word 'partners', he hoped John hadn't noticed.

It was when he'd mentioned regulating their sex with a schedule (_a pretty decent idea, if he said so himself, regular sex meant this sort of thing __**would not happen again**__) _that John finally interrupted him. Apparently he didn't like Sherlock's idea. Yes, because John came up with such good ones on his own…

And then John was saying exactly what he'd known all along, of course, and he got impatient. Yes, perhaps he had been harsh, and perhaps he did feel a twinge of remorse at implying John had 'fallen into' that woman's arms.

But to comprehend that John had been more upset than he'd thought about their distance? And that he'd wanted to avoid mentioning it because he'd believed their relationship should be able to withstand something like that?

Oh, John. Silly, silly John; Sherlock was almost ready to forgive the man.

Disregarding all of the day's chaos, and the slight drifting away they'd had before that, Sherlock was absolutely a hundred percent certain that John cared for him. And that went both ways.

He knew, as fact, that John would do nearly anything for him; the man had killed for him when they'd been barely acquaintances, for god's sake.

The last twenty-four hours had been an earthquake, a seismic shifting in their relationship. It had done damage, of course - it seeped into the trust they had built over the years, and stung with all the consequences a betrayal (albeit a drunken one). It had shaken them both, and left cracks that would be difficult to fill.

But Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were stronger than that, thank you very much. Over the time they'd spent together (_running around the streets of London and solving crimes, watching crap telly and eating take-out, the pulse-racing and the peaceful tossed together into the lives they lived_), they'd managed to from a strong foundation.

Sherlock was all lava, fiery and so hot that most people couldn't stand to be near him for melting; but John was water, ordinary at first glance but absolutely capable of anything, ice or water or steam, and he could stand Sherlock's heat better than anyone else.

And when they came together, they formed rock - limestone, so strong it could build pyramids and towers, caves and canyons and cliffs.

This - this issue of John and the woman who was so insignificant he'd already forgotten her name - this was nothing to them. This was _tiny_, and with his new perspective Sherlock could even appreciate how things had been shaken up, so where there was confusion and uncertainty before, they could refill the cracks with love and faith and trust.

They would come back from this greater than before, stronger, Sherlock had no doubt. In the future, they would look back on this night as someone squeezing a lime to their limestone. Negligible.

Sherlock's eyes had just begun to soften towards John, the man peeking out of his mind palace windows, when the doctor began swaying. And then before Sherlock could move (_little gagging noises, eyes fluttering, lurching, John was going to throw up and possibly faint_), there was vomit on his leather shoes.

But Sherlock did manage to move quickly enough to catch John before he fell and hit pavement. Yes, even if the man _had_ gotten sick all over his (rather expensive) shoes; Sherlock did love the man, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

_Quick Author's Note: Short, I know, but rereading the last chapter, I felt the story didn't need much more. Might do an extra showing Kate and Irene in the future, but for the time being, anyway, this story is complete! Thank you again to all you reviewers, alerters, and favers. I really appreciate the feedback. _

"One forgives to the degree that one loves." - Francois de la Rouchefoucauld

**Chapter IV**

Their relationship wasn't perfect.

Nobody who knew them would say that. Not Mrs. Hudson, who practically lived with them, and had to deal with their fights for ages. Not Lestrade, who was the one John poured out his drunken worries to, on late nights at the bar when Sherlock was busy. Not Mycroft, who had them both under surveillance and had a folder on his desk detailing exactly what John and Sherlock were fighting about.

Certainly not Irene Adler, or even Kate. Especially not them, and especially not since what John had started thinking of as 'The Wine Time I Cheated on Sherlock'. (Of course, he had been a bit sleepy when he'd come up with that - the whole story was typed up in his private files, sort of his diary, and he'd wanted to wait until Sherlock was asleep before writing it down. How was he supposed to know that Sherlock fell asleep at a time normal people were getting up? Or that his brain tended to become a bit funnier when he was half-awake?)

But while Sherlock and John weren't perfect, they were doing absolutely fine, thank you very much. It was exactly as Sherlock had predicted. Logical predictions were, after all, only conclusions based off of deductions, and the consulting detective excelled at those.

Sherlock had let John beg forgiveness for a few days, making him do things he normally wouldn't be able to get his sweater-wearing lover to do. John endured some 96 hours of cleaning up spilled acids, scrubbing pigs' blood off of the silverware, and other inanities he usually put his foot down at.

96 hours elapsed before Sherlock had hauled the doctor off the couch, where he'd been taking a much-deserved break, and carried him off to his bedroom. He had then proceeded to drop the man on top of his bed. Sherlock's coat had come off then, and Sherlock informed a baffled John that if he'd thought the physical part of his penance was over, he was sadly mistaken.

John was a practical man, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. In this case, of course, it was a loving Sherlock, and of course he did want to look at him, and do some touching, too… The rational part of John's mind never did manage too well when it came to Sherlock.

This was the man who reduced his vocabulary to words like '_fantastic_' and '_bit not good_', after all. When you put brilliance, excitement, and danger together into one gorgeous package of a man, and dropped him in front of John Watson? Well, he was reduced to a lip-licking, trouble-seeking mess.

That was how John rationalized his current incapability of speech, at least. Because Sherlock was tugging his brand-new jumper off, and he couldn't even bring himself to care when it tore in his lover's eagerness. He was reciprocating (_and wasn't that a summary of how their relationship worked, Sherlock running full speed and John panting to catch up?_), running his calloused hands against that smooth, pale skin.

And then he couldn't even think of what he was doing, couldn't find the words for 'skin' or 'touch' or 'tongue'. It was all _mmmm, yes!_ and _SherlockSherlockSherlock_ and then _love, love, love_.

And after that, when they both lay in each other's arms, breaths slow and heavy and satisfied and mingling with the smell of their lovemaking, John honestly couldn't remember when his life had been sweeter.


End file.
